The End of All
by frostmidget
Summary: Loki knows the back alleys of space like the back of his hand. So he is naturally confused when something goes a little awry with his attempted escape from the Ragnarok he caused. The one person he trusts to help him doesn't know who he is. In his own brilliant words, "Define worse"...
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is my first venture into fanfiction proper. I am a prolific writer of non-fan fiction, and some of this can be seen on my blog (PM for details if desired). Please be considerate! **

**Also, forgive me for the brevity of this chapter – it's more of an introduction, really! **

**1: The End of All Things**

Darkness came as a relief once the burning apocalyptic fires were left behind. He breathed, slowly at first, attempting to assess the situation. Darkness, though welcome, was disorienting. He could see nothing, hear nothing, and only by some freak of his natural abilities could he feel a tiny breeze on his skin – barely more than a chilly breath, really. The blackness was new. He was more accustomed to the swirling patterns of the back-alleys through time and space. This eerie emptiness was unsettling.

And then, with a rush, a blast of cold light, he reached his destination. He lay on the ground, floored by the brightness, panting as he grasped vainly for the air. Something wasn't right. He had travelled this route so many times before – why did it feel wrong? He stared up at the stars. They were her stars, after all. Not his. He wasn't even sure what his stars looked like anymore. He shook the feeling of uncertainty off, and rose to his feet, rather shakily, wrapping his long, dark leather coat more securely around him. The journey appeared to have very nearly pulled it off his back.

He staggered to begin with, reeling and lurching like a drunkard. He gritted his teeth against the indignity. Thankfully no-one else was present to witness his stupid helplessness. The End of All had taken its toll on him, but at least he was still alive. So many others had not survived.

Now, in his time of need, he was prepared to do what he had never done in his life – ask for help. She would require persuading, that much he knew. They had not exactly parted on the best of terms.

A ghost of his once-ready smirk rose to his lips. He hoped his silver tongue would not fail him this time. He was going to need all its power to save him now.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Now we may actually begin the story itself! **

**Warning – I am likely to be rather periodic in my updates, so if you hear nothing for a little while, don't be alarmed, I have not abandoned ship.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except my OC and the weather in England. Actually, I don't even own that. If I did, it would be vastly improved. **

**2: Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot**

It was cold outside; not that that in itself had ever bothered him, but he was feeling oddly weakened, and still the indefinable sensation of something, somewhere, being deeply wrong, would not leave him. He managed to get his limbs to obey him properly after some effort, and began to pick his way very carefully down a frosty lane toward the light he could see. It was a warm light, one that said to him softly, 'buildings'. He trudged toward it, energy sapping from him with every step. It was most peculiar. Evidently the journey had taken more power from him than usual, for some reason.

The light turned out to be a country pub. He had no idea where he was, now. He had meant to end up in London, and this was definitely not London.

But when he got inside the pub and looked across the room, he knew why he was here.

She sat alone, her white-blonde hair hiding her face from his view, a glass half full of deep red wine winking at her from the tabletop. He felt a curious sensation on seeing her – something akin to apprehension, yet also remarkably similar to excitement. They had not met for some time, and he was ashamed to admit that he wasn't really looking forward to explaining himself to her. They'd had a spectacular row which ended in him stalking out of her life in a swirl of angry green, and then everything had started to go wrong in Asgard, and he hadn't been able to return. Not that he wanted to apologize. The things she had said would have been enough to provoke anyone, and he did not respond well to criticism. But, much as it galled him to identify the emotion, he did feel just a little guilty for not returning until now. She would no doubt be furious, and although she always looked splendid when wrathful, the words that came out of her mouth could be extremely difficult to swallow.

He expected anger; he expected accusation, possibly even a small amount of violence – so the look of utter blankness set him quite off-balance.

"Do I know you?" She was polite, reserved, more distant than he'd ever known her. Even when they had first met she had been demonstrative. Yes, it had resulted in her nearly breaking her knuckles on his jaw, but he had found that far easier to deal with than this odd aloofness.

He tried to smile, and failed. "I know it has been far too long. I am sorry," that word inevitably stuck in his throat even when it was true, "but things have happened that…"

She frowned. Not an angry frown, just a confused one. "I'm really sorry, I don't remember ever meeting you."

This time he did smile. "Very well, Sol, I suppose you are entitled to your revenge, however petty it may be."

The effect of this was not quite what he had anticipated. She stood up abruptly, and her hands came up in a defensive gesture. "How do you know my name? Nobody ever called me Sol except my father."

The feeling of wrongness was now so strong that Loki was beginning to feel dizzy. "I have called you Sol for years, but if you prefer not to be reminded of that, I will address you by your full name."

"Reminded? Look, Mr Whoever You Are, I have no recollection of meeting you… OH." She broke off with a sudden narrowing of her ice-blue eyes. "I know what this is. Look, I appreciate your enjoyment of my work, and I'm flattered you wanted to thank me in person, but please go away now, because however much you beg you are NOT going to get a photograph with me, and I'm sorry I haven't replied to your letters or emails but I've been totally snowed under, and in fact I'm on holiday and HOW did you find me here?" She ended this torrent of nonsense on a note of challenging suspicion.

"Photograph? I do not require a photograph," said Loki, latching onto the one thing that made sense to him. Ironic that it was also the one reference to Midgardian technology.

She relaxed very slightly. "Oh. Well, that's a relief. I assumed you were a fan."

His puzzlement must have shown on his face, because she plunged into a messy explanation. "You're not? Oh, I'm so sorry. I must have sounded horribly rude, but you see I'm rather sick of it all. I published five scientific books, all chock-full of facts and theories and really excellent reasoning, even if I do say so myself – and got almost nowhere, and then I broke my leg and got so bored that I wrote that wretched adventure novel, and suddenly everyone loves me and I get stalked by fans who want to tell me how my silly story changed their lives!"

Loki blinked. He must have been away even longer than he had thought. "I did not know you had written a novel. I am very familiar with your scientific work, however."

Her face lit up, causing a strange ache of nostalgia in his heart. He crushed it quickly. Loki and sentiment did not have dealings with one another.

"You are? I am so sorry I bit your head off just then! I hardly ever meet anyone who wants to talk about my scientific work. Have you read all my books?"

"All five," said Loki with a smirk. "They are very interesting, very well written, carefully thought-out… they are, of course, also wildly inaccurate, but we won't dwell on that." He wasn't sure what game she was playing, but he felt that he deserved at least a little retaliation.

"Inaccurate? Are you a scientist?"

"Yes," he said, without hesitation. Well, it wasn't quite a lie. He knew things about the field Midgardians called 'science' that they had not even dreamt of.

"I'd love to have a debate with you," she said wistfully, "But… Oh my God!"

She was staring at him with wide, horrified eyes. Actually, she was staring at his chest. "You're bleeding!"

He looked down, crinkling his brow. She was quite correct. The leather of his complicated gilet was stained with a rapidly growing dark patch.

"So I am," he said, and suddenly there was a rushing in his ears, and then everything went dark.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Disclaimer – Naturally I own nothing except original characters and the plot… **

**The small piece of poetry in this chapter does belong to me too. Other than that, I take no credit!**

**3: It's Dark Inside **

_The fires rage with a pure, vengeful heat that threatens to melt the very flesh from his bones. He stands staring at the body at his feet, accusing eyes surrounding him, yet still he stands tall, because he is a prince. In fact for some time now he has been a king. The fact that he was impersonating someone else is, of course, beside the point._

_And then the voices begin. _

"_You killed him," they hiss. "Balder, your own brother. Murderer. Murderer."_

"_NOT my brother!" he spits back, filled with indignation at their venom. "I have no brother."_

"_Brother or not, you killed him."_

"_Have I not the right to defend myself and the realm I rule? He was behind this insurrection. He threatened everything we are. Rebel organizations must be cut off at the head, otherwise they simply keep growing."_

"_You cannot talk your way out of it this time, Frost Giant. He too was our prince, and more worthy of that title than you ever were."_

"_A lost princeling none of you had even heard of until a short time ago? You fickle creatures. Only a few years ago it was Thor you wanted on the throne, and now your mourn the loss of this idiot, insubordinate child as your future monarch?"_

"_Even that would be better than obeying YOU!"_

_The hisses are turning to shouts, the shouts to roars… Asgard howls for the blood of its rejected prince. _

_The fire has made it impossible for him to sustain any illusion. Not for the first time, he curses his Jotun ancestry. A true prince of Asgard would have little issue with the flame, but for him it is torture – such a simple thing as remaining vertical and walking slowly takes a supreme effort. Somehow he pushes himself beyond even his own limits, lashing out at the weapons brandished under his very nose. But the heat has made him slow, and some of them meet their mark. The wounds on his weakened form, from Asgardian weapons, are excruciating. He grits his teeth, clamping his jaw shut so as to allow the whimpers of pain no egress. He knows what this is. It was foretold centuries ago. How does the rhyme go?_

'_Heat and cold_

_Green and gold_

_Ragnarok be thus foretold…'_

_No wonder everyone mistrusted him from the very beginning. Even his favourite colours were prophesied. His eyes gleam with his characteristic mischievous, sarcastic humour, even now as the realm he once called home is ripping itself apart. No-one can say he does things by halves, even when it comes to accidentally fulfilling prophecies. _

_His body trembles, but he holds himself as steady as he can, turning to give them one last mocking grin before he vanishes from before their hate-filled eyes. It takes every bit of residual strength he has, but he manages to stay invisible until he is out of their view. He makes his way painfully toward the crack in the the rock he discovered so many years ago to be a doorway to Midgard. Sol (foolish soubriquet! Yet he uses it) the mortal he has had dealings with over the years after the New York debacle, is one of the possibly two people in the universe he feels he can trust to any degree. Trust is a problem with him, slightly ironic for the master of illusion and misdirection. Sol never treated him as a threat or an enemy, but rather as a person with a difficult personality and an even more difficult past. She had begun by voicing her opinions on his actions quite forcibly, but over time she had come to understand him a little better. And then he destroyed their fragile bond by saying something calculated to hurt, and she had responded in kind, after which he had stormed off. _

_He does not want to go to her for shelter, but she is the only person he can think of to ask. Mainly because she is the only person he trusts who doesn't believe him dead. _

_The fire makes his eyes water. It is everywhere, consuming the wreckage of homes and wagons, swallowing trees whole in its deadly mouth, licking at the edges of the waters, leaping higher and higher and threatening to devour every last stone that once made Asgard the jewel of the Nine Realms. _

_He enters the rock, and is suddenly engulfed in darkness. The fires cannot follow him here. The political upheaval, the riots, the sound of utter destruction as the Realm Eternal claws itself to ribbons, and the constant baying of the unhappy masses are all gone, lost in the depth of the pathway to hope. But the feeling of inadequacy never leaves him, never fades, never heals, and it aches worse than the wounds he now endures. _

Loki woke with a gasp, his eyes flying open to see a sterile white ceiling above him. He lay still, trying to assess not only his surroundings but also his physical condition. It did not feel good. For some reason his mind was oddly foggy, but through the fog he was aware of a distinct pain arcing around his body. He tried to move, but found to his disgust that he was too weak to do so to any effect. There was something stuck in his hand – a tube, attached somehow to the space just above his knuckles. He frowned at it.

"Where am I?" It was meant to be a demand, but it came out as more of a pathetic whine. He scowled.

A woman in a strange, insipid blue button-through dress came hurrying over, peering into his face with a nauseating smile. "Oh, you're awake! I'll get your girlfriend for you."

And she bustled off just as he was opening his mouth to deny any knowledge of a 'girlfriend'.

He shut his eyes, preparing for the worst.

"I thought you said he was awake?"

His eyes snapped open. _Sol._


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Well it seems I just can't stop writing this! It's been in my head for days now, refusing so much as breathing room to any of my other works in progress, so… here you are, another chapter. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except my OCs. **

**That's not strictly true, of course – I also own my car, various bits of technology, and a great many books. But for the purposes of this necessary disclaimer – if you recognize it, it's probably not mine. **

**Bonne lecture! **

**4: Familiar Faces**

She was standing next to what he now identified as a bed on which he was currently lying prone. Her hair was a mess, and she looked tired, but he had honestly never been happier to see her.

"Sol," he croaked. His voice, normally so smooth and rich, sounded rusty.

Her eyes were full of concern, but she couldn't seem to resist beginning with a mild joke. "I see you're back in the land of the living. Was heaven too boring for a scientist of your calibre?"

"Heaven?" he muttered. "I think we both know there's not much chance of my ending up _there."_

Apparently she took this as a joke in response to her own. "I'm very glad to see you're still with us. You really scared me. I've never had anyone collapse on me before, and as nice as it is to be able to boast about the hot guy who fell at my feet, I'd rather he didn't die in the process!"

Loki frowned. He was struggling to keep up with her. "I'll not die, not this time at any rate."

"I'll hold you to that. But seriously, what happened to you? The doctor says you have some very nasty wounds."

"I was… involved in an accident…" said Loki, desperately scrambling for scraps of memory about the Midgardian way of life. Although he had spent quite a lot of time here over the last few years, he could not say he had ever taken very much notice of the finer points of their doubtful culture. Loki did not like to waste brain-space on things he considered unimportant. He now wished he had paid more attention.

"And you decided to come into a country pub straight afterwards and talk to me about my scientific writing? People don't just walk away from the sort of accident that causes damage like that."

"I was in shock," he said, clutching with relief at a memory of something he had read during one of his visits. He had been particularly bored, and had been casting a cursory eye over a book of Midgardian medicine. "Shock does odd things to a person, I believe."

She didn't look convinced, and he could not really blame her – as explanations went, that was by no means his best. But it would have to suffice, because he was too exhausted and too fuzzy-headed to do better.

Thankfully she did not pursue the subject further. "You didn't have any ID or personal information of any kind… it's been quite awkward."

His eyes widened. "What did you tell them?"

She lowered her voice, looking a little sheepish. "Well… the fact is, I told them you were my boyfriend. It was the only way they'd let me hang around and wait for you to wake up. I'm really sorry if it's embarrassing or anything, but I couldn't let them just send me away. I didn't want you to come round in here without anyone you knew. I know we've only just met officially so I don't exactly count, but at least I'm a familiar face."

"Sol… what is happening?" He knew he sounded like a lost child, but he was past caring now.

She looked at him sympathetically for a moment, and then did something totally unexpected – she reached out her hand and took his. He stared down at their hands blankly, feeling a strange, burning pressure at the back of his eyes. To his horror, a large teardrop gathered on his lower lashes, teetering damply before taking the plunge and tumbling down his cheek. He glared at the white cover of the bed, trying to pull himself together. This was not the way for a prince to act. It was not what was expected of a monster, either. In fact, this ridiculous behaviour didn't fit with any of the things he was supposed to be. Of course, he was still in shock. That was all it was. A bizarre emotional response to a stupid physical problem. It had nothing to do with the fact that nobody had touched him in sympathy or affection for a very long time. Nothing whatsoever.

"Are you ok?" Her voice sounded concerned, but he could not raise his eyes to hers, not yet. He could not let her see the pain in his eyes; that would give her far too much of a hold on him. He trusted her – she was _Sol_ – but not that much. Nobody was ever allowed to see so deeply into his black, unhappy soul. He pulled his hand away with a twitch of annoyance. Even he wasn't quite sure what the annoyance hid, but it might have been fear.

Fortunately she seemed to require no answer, chastising herself immediately. "I'm an idiot – of course you're not ok. I'm not saying I necessarily believe the accident story, but there's no denying you're pretty badly banged up. You lost so much blood while I was waiting for the ambulance to arrive, even though I did everything I could think of to try and stop the bleeding… I really thought you wouldn't make it. I'm so happy you're alive. It's bad publicity for an author's fans to start dying on her, you know," she added, but the joke apparently sounded a little hollow even to her own ears. "You probably think I'm a heartless bitch to be cracking jokes while you're lying there with a bloody great hole in your chest – pun intended! – but I'm afraid that's how I deal with stress. Generally speaking, the worse things are and the more anxious I am, the more I hide behind irony."

He had composed himself enough to shoot her a wide stare at this. The Sol he knew did not respond to trauma in this way, but he understood the reaction perfectly because he recognized it as his own. This sudden insight into himself unsettled him.

"It does not offend me," he managed to say.

She smiled. "Then we'll be alright. I'd better leave you now – you need rest, and me jabbering on at you isn't going to be conducive to healing!"

She turned to go, but then evidently thought of something. "By the way, if anyone asks, your name's Daniel. Daniel Harrington."

"_Daniel Harrington?_"

She shrugged. "It was the best I could come up with at short notice. Don't complain too much. At least it's more interesting than John Smith."

Midgardian humour. He rolled his eyes.

She smiled again. "Are you feeling better? You just pulled a very expressive face."

"I am allowed to do so," he said, a little defensively. "It is my face, after all."

"And it's a very nice one," she replied, taking the wind totally out of his sails. Before he could think of anything cutting to say in reply, she had bid him farewell and breezed out of the room.

He lost himself in thought. This situation was most peculiar. Sol _was_ Sol, but she said and did things in a very un-Sol-like manner. The Sol he knew would never have said anything about his face. She wasn't serious, of course. This odd, changed Sol was a sarcastic being, just like him. Nobody could find his face attractive, surely. He had always been the strange one, the changeling child (how apt!), the lean, lithe, dark one with such pale skin it was almost translucent, and those weird, huge green eyes that nobody had ever trusted. No, no, she was jesting in that ironic way she had.

Thus satisfied on this point, he cast his mind back to various things she had said over the course of their relatively brief conversations. She kept saying things that implied she truly did not know him. But how was that possible? He had not been away for as long as that – only a few Midgardian years. It had not even been so much as a decade, he was sure of it. She had not aged enough, anyway. Something extraordinary was going on here, and he wanted to know what it was. Mind control? But he knew the signs of that only too well, and she exhibited none. Had her memory been wiped somehow? He knew it was possible – in fact, on his better days he could even do it himself – but it seemed unlikely, because as far as he was aware, nobody knew of his association with her. And surely, if someone wanted to capture him, they would have used her to trap him with memories intact. What is the point of using bait that doesn't remember the victim? He shook his head over the puzzle. For now it was beyond him. He was tired. So very tired. He would wait until she visited again, and then he would try to find out more. For now, unusually for him, all he wanted was to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: First of all, thank you to Sierra Sutherwinds for taking the time to read and review - you give me hope! **

**Sorry it's been a slightly longer wait this time, - this chapter took a little more beating into shape than the others did. I hope it was worth it. **

**Disclaimer: What's mine is mine. I take credit for nothing else. **

**5: We Belong Way Down Below**

_It is cold, dark and suffocating at the bottom of the Void. _

_Their hissing, raspy whispers encircle him – he cannot escape. They twist everything already broken within him until even he can barely recognize himself. He, the liar, no longer able to remember truth – what a delightful irony! He wants to laugh, but the sound that escapes his chapped lips is an ugly, wild noise quite unlike his own soft chuckle. He can just about recall a time when he revelled in mischief almost purely for the fun of it, when his laughs were genuine and his soul wasn't this fractured. _

_Unless that was someone else. _

_Perhaps it was. _

_He isn't certain anymore. _

_The one thing that drives him still, the one solidly real knowledge that stabs like a spear through the morass of confusion and pain, is his need for recognition. His desperation, fuelled by anger and betrayal, keeps him from going under, and he feeds it constantly. Every now and then a little suspicious doubt surfaces in his whirling head, namely, that They seem to want him to feed it… but repeatedly he shoves the doubt to the back of his mind. His hurt and rage are the only things keeping him alive, and he will be damned before he gives them up. _

_But he is damned, after all. _

_**You are damned,**__ whisper the voices, sounding gradually less and less like Them and more and more like his false family. __**You are damned. **_

_**I was a king!**__ He protests, lack of validation constricting his throat and threatening to release a cascade of hot tears. He whips himself into a dark, sharp reactive fury. _

_**Laufey's son, **__comes the reply, hissed from the edges of the abyss. __**The nowhere child. Left to die. That was your true destiny. **_

_Echoes float around his brain, taunting, knifing. __**Stop this madness. Come home. Give up this poisonous dream… **_

_**It's not my dream anymore – it's Theirs! **__He screams, but no sound emerges. He is finding it hard to breathe, and the sounds of his rough, ragged breath startle him with their volume. He has to remind himself to keep up the steady rhythm needed for life. _

_In…_

_Out..._

_In…_

_Out…_

_He is sweating, a damp sheen coating his face. His eyes feel bruised. His body shakes as something cold pierces him to the very depth of his being. He realizes with a sense of despair that it is his own darkness, leaching everything that was once good out of him through his veins. Thor's face swims before his tear-blurred vision, and his voice rumbles with those most painful of words, __**That hope no longer exists…**_

_And then, eerily, his own voice drifts back to him. __**See you in hell, monster. **_

His dreams were disturbing, an odd combination of real memories and tense, illogical fantasy that made his subconscious mind curl in on itself, trying to protect itself from the pain and insanity. He gradually resurfaced to the knowledge that his head ached like hell and the aridity of his mouth could probably give Muspelheim a run for its money. He opened his eyes with a protesting groan.

She was there again. He noticed, with a jolt of anxiety, the large dark shadows under her eyes. Relief sparked through her face on seeing that he was awake.

"Oh God, I've been so worried about you."

He felt his brows knitting themselves together.

"You've been unconscious for two days," she explained. "It seems you're allergic to the painkillers."

"Two days!" He dredged up every last shred of medical knowledge he had ever taken in. "Pain killer. An allergy? I did not know."

"They had to take the IV out. You must be in awful pain. I'm so sorry."

He _was _in pain, but strangely enough he almost preferred that to the fuzzy, sleepy feeling. He felt more like himself now, sharper, quicker, with a brain that no longer felt as if it was wrapped in a layer of cloud.

"I'll survive. Surprisingly the thing that is at present causing most discomfort is a raging thirst. Is there any water on that table?"

There was; she poured him a glass, and put it into his hand with great care. He took a sip, slow and delicate. It felt like a miracle. He would never have imagined such bliss from something so simple, so humble as a glass of water. A stray quotation floated across his consciousness, _How are the mighty fallen! _His lips twisted in something that was not quite a smirk. Who would have thought that one day Loki, prince of Asgard, whose towering intellect matched his physical height, the one who had so proudly declared himself a god when threatened by ignorant, foolish mortals, would be so bowled over by the sensations caused by a glass of water?

Sol was watching him again. She did that a lot. "So are you going to tell me your actual name?"

He breathed in the wrong place, choked, coughed; she took the glass from him hastily, and attempted to soothe him. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

He rolled his eyes despite the sudden pain from his chest. "At any other time I'd accept your incessant apologies, but just now they are more irritating than helpful. Please stop."

She stopped. Her eyebrow flew up; she said, "Is that your way of telling me not to worry? Because if it is, allow me to tell you that it sucks!"

He almost smiled. "You asked me my name, I believe?"

She nodded.

He took a deep breath. He hadn't expected this to be so difficult. "I am Loki. Of… no place in particular."

He waited for the moment of revelation. It never came. She looked interested, that was all.

"Are you Scandinavian?"

"Not exactly," he said cautiously, bewildered by her total lack of recognition. Even if she didn't remember him from their association, she should at least know the name.

"Oh. Your name just sounds Scandinavian, that's all." There was a very brief pause, then she offered, "I'm Norwegian myself. At least my family is. Or was. A long time ago. I'm quite boringly English in reality. It just explains my funny name."

"Sol… do you truly not remember me?" He knew he should not ask, but he couldn't resist it. His mystification and curiosity were too great.

Her eyes were suddenly full of wary confusion. "Why do you keep saying things like that? It's true I've met a lot of people, but even so I'm fairly sure I would remember you!" A tiny spot of colour showed on each cheekbone.

"Perhaps I am still suffering the effects of shock," he said quietly, offering her a way out of the labyrinth this conversation had so quickly become.

"You can't blame everything on shock," she said, startling him by refusing the easy offer and plunging headfirst back into the midst of the maze. "You've been pretty insistent all the way along. Something strange is going on here."

She was certainly correct about that.

"So, _Loki…_why did you come to see me?"

"I thought we agreed I stumbled into that tavern by chance after the accident?" He wanted to bite out his tongue. Why, by all that blazed in the Nine, _why_ could he not simply be silent and stop her from speculating?

"Agreement suggests choice," she replied, "and I don't remember being given a choice. You offered that as your cover story, and I didn't argue too much at the time because you looked like you were about to give up the ghost any second. I don't like fighting with dying men."

"And you think I look better today?" He was incredulous.

She tilted her head to one side, considering. "Yes and no. On the whole I think you look pretty good for a man who's been out of it for fifty-one hours. But you seemed to be having nightmares during the last part of it."

His jaw hardened. "Did I speak?"

"You mumbled a fair bit. I couldn't really catch what you were saying, though. Don't worry, I didn't overhear any national secrets."

"Any secrets I might have would far outweigh anything you could imagine," he said. _Damn_.

"I assume you _are_ more than you appear, then?" she said, as if her suspicions had been confirmed.

"Isn't everyone?" he managed to deflect.

She stared at him thoughtfully. "What are you going to do when you get out of hospital? You must have had a reason to come and talk to me. Unless you really are just a fan."

He had not thought of that. He hadn't really thought beyond the reunion he had envisioned.

"Have you got somewhere to go? I only ask because although I imagine it's customary for someone like you not to have any ID, you don't seem to have any money either. By the way, that coat of yours has seen better days. Shame. I should imagine it was rather nice when it was new. Lovely leather."

"I… have nowhere," he said. It was more true than she realized.

"I have a caravan in my garden," she said, unexpectedly.

He blinked. "A caravan…"

"…In my garden. Yes. I know it won't be what you're used to, but you could sleep in it for a while until you get yourself sorted out. If you like. Just… don't start a gun battle in my garden, or anything like that. Please."

He frowned. "I'm not sure what you think I am, but…"

She grinned, that wide, dimpled radiance that sent a shock to his system. He had forgotten how joyful and potent that particular smile could be. "Oh don't mind me, I'm just joking around with you. I'm serious about the caravan, though. You would be entirely welcome, Mr Bond."

_A cultural reference, _he thought grimly, and ignored it.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I told you I would return… **

**This chapter turned out rather more funny than I originally intended. I just can't help playing around with the sarcasm factor.**

**The usual disclaimer applies! **

**On with the show…**

**6: You're From a Whole Other World**

Loki shut his eyes after she left. His head was plagued by an intermittent throbbing ache just behind his eyebrows, as if his forehead was being manhandled by someone with very hard fingers and a grudge. He knew why it was, Loki was always, always on top of the situation, even if the only way to manifest that was to make a snide comment or a sardonic jibe. He detested loss of control, and he was well aware that he had felt this helpless only twice before – once while writhing in the Void, and once during the unspeakably awful period when he wasn't dead on Svartalfheim. He loathed it. He was weak, wounded, sick with horrible pain, drained of all his energy and power, stuck in an uncomfortable bed, completely at the mercy of the vampires and vultures Midgard so fondly thought of as healers. And that wasn't the worst thing about it. There was so much that didn't make sense, and he felt a deep frustration because even despite the improvement effected by the removal of the pain killer, his brain was still not quite up to its usual working standard. A jumble of thoughts danced behind his eyelids, and he was attempting to sort them out when he heard Sol returning. Her footsteps were unmistakable to him now, but she seemed to be in a hurry. Had she left one of her belongings behind?

"Loki."

His eyes opened immediately. Her pointed face was taut, and her whole body radiated tension. "We have to get out of here." It was an announcement, a rushed hushed declaration that brooked no argument.

"Why?" Loki, unfortunately, had never been very good at not arguing.

"I don't know what exactly is going on, but there are some extremely tough-looking people in suits and sunglasses who just arrived at the hospital, and I overheard the nurses telling them where you are. So come on, we have to go."

_S.H.I.E.L.D., _he thought. What he said was, "Why are you doing this?"

She stared at him as if he'd just asked the most moronic question in the universe. "Look, I may not know much about you or what's happening here – mainly because you won't tell me anything – but I do know toughs when I see them, and there is no way I'm letting them get hold of you while you're in this condition. Plus I've never been overly fond of the Powers That Be. People who looked very much like those guys downstairs once did appalling things to my dad because they thought he had information they wanted. He didn't, but by the time they realized he was telling the truth, it was too late. He never really recovered from it."

He looked at her, unable to decide what to do. "You do realize that if we do this, not only will you be lumbered with…" he gestured to himself with an expression of disgust, "_the walking wounded…_ but those people will no doubt come after you as well."

"You think I give a highly-coloured damn about that? I couldn't forgive myself if I just stood by and let them drag you off to their lair."

"Lair?" He couldn't suppress a faint smile.

"We have to hurry," she insisted, dragging the blankets off him. He sat up, slowly, painfully. He was dressed in a very fetching white… _thing…_ that did not cover nearly as much of his body as he would have wished. It was incredibly humiliating. Perhaps that was how the Midgardian 'healing' system worked – the patients got well through sheer willpower in order to curtail this degrading nonsense.

Sol didn't appear to notice his discomfort. She grabbed a nearby contraption that looked like an instrument of torture, with wheels, a hammock-seat, and a selection of straps and buckles which Loki viewed with deep suspicion, and pushed it in his general direction.

It squeaked. He stared. _Surely_ she didn't expect…?

"Come on," she said through her teeth. "What are you glaring at it for? It's a wheelchair, it's not going to bite you."

He swung his long legs over the side of the bed, unable to repress the groan of pain that resulted from the movement. And then her hands were on him, tugging, supporting, pushing, _helping._ Somehow he landed in the hammock-seat, an ignominious bundle of bone and sinew, and she thrust an open-knit wool blanket into his lap. He recognized it as having resided palely at the foot of his bed. It was a disgusting yellowish colour, and he frowned at it, but she was already doing something with his feet, and didn't see the disapproval.

Once she had finished mauling him into the correct shape, she hastily arranged the blanket over his legs, and gave the contraption a shove. It rattled. He grunted. For all their pride in scientific advancement, Midgardians couldn't seem to help falling back on primitive mechanics.

She pushed him out of the room, and down a narrow, odd-smelling corridor. The floor was nondescript but shiny. The lighting wasn't quite steady - it flickered ever so slightly, and from various directions he could hear a faint, technological humming.

They were picking up speed now – obviously she felt that their time was short. Knowing S.H.I.E.L.D. as he did, he felt that perhaps they had a little more time than she thought, but was disinclined to say so, just in case their reactions had gained in rapidity over the years. It wasn't impossible.

"Where exactly are you planning to go?" he asked.

"We're escaping from a bunch of suited thugs; don't ask me irrelevant questions."

"I thought it was a fairly relevant inquiry!"

"The truth is I have no idea what we're going to do once we get out of here. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

"Bridge?"

"Ok, right now I'm too busy trying to formulate an escape plan to give that question the attention it deserves for sheer weirdness. It's an expression meaning I like to focus on one thing at a time."

"Do you never plan ahead, then?" He couldn't reconcile this frankly worrying attribute with the Sol he had once known. It was rapidly dawning on him that this Sol was far more drastically different than he had at first thought.

"Occasionally," she said airily. "But in this instance I felt that speed of execution was more important than advance planning."

_This is a strange conversation,_ he thought.

"I may have been mistaken," she said.

She had. Racing footsteps behind them indicated the approach of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, and ahead of them was something that looked very much like a dead end.

Loki felt a tight panic begin to take hold of him. The fear itself created more fear – he was unsure what was causing this reaction. He should not be afraid of them. Silly, arrogant, self-righteous mortals, most of whom played into his hands with almost unbelievable ease last time. Had it not been for that wretched green creature, he would no doubt have succeeded in his aim. So why should he fear them now?

He was jolted out of his thoughts by Sol, who twisted the wheeled chair very sharply around a corner he hadn't registered. He hissed as his elbow made sudden contact with the metal arm of the chair, causing pain to travel up his shoulder and into his chest, which was still extremely sore.

"Sorry," she said. "I didn't have time to warn you."

They were hurtling down yet another corridor, toward a large metal door set into the wall at the far end.

"Where are you taking me?" He tried to sound humorous, and felt that he hadn't quite succeeded.

"Service lift," she said, succinctly, evidently with no idea that he was still totally in the dark.

She pressed a button on the wall, and the metal door swished open, revealing a tiny, square room. She shoved the wheeled chair inside, ignoring his sounds of protest. It wasn't that he was claustrophobic, but…

She pressed another button. A disembodied voice, ingratiating, smug, spoke to them, surprising Loki, who looked around for the source. _'Doors closing.' _

The door shut behind them. He really was _fine _with small enclosed spaces.

The whole room shivered suddenly, and then Loki felt a curious and unpleasant sensation, rather as though his internal organs were attempting to climb out through his throat.

"What have you done to me, woman?" he shouted, trying feebly to lift himself out of the wheeled chair. _Damn_ his legs for not obeying him!

"Calm down!" she said, annoyingly serene. "What the hell's the matter with you? Haven't you ever been in a lift before?"

"No," he said, panic winning over pride.

He noticed that there was a mirror on the wall next to them. He could see her face in it – she was frowning as if concentrating on a complex puzzle.

"Who are you? You sound English but you don't understand basic idioms, you have very odd ideas about the effect of shock on the human system, you don't seem to have seen a wheelchair before, and you nearly go out of your mind when I put you in a lift, despite the fact that we've had elevators in England since 1823!"

"I'm not sure how well you will take to the explanation," he said quietly.

"Try me."

"I am… not from around here."

"You can say that again!" she said, a spark of mischief lighting up her face.

"I'm serious. I am from another world. I can't really tell you much more than that at this moment, but suffice it to say, those 'suited thugs', as you rather aptly put it, have a definite reason for wanting to capture me."

"Like Area 51?" she asked, then seeing his look of total blankness, "Oh, never mind."

'_Doors opening,'_ said the floating voice, sinisterly cheerful.

Sol wasted no time, pushing him through the door and charging down the carpeted entrance hall.

"Am I going to come out of this still in one piece?" he asked the world at large.

"Well it's either my dreadful wheelchair-driving, or being beaten up by those people – take your pick."

"I think I'd rather take my chances with them," he deadpanned. "At least they might spare me a broken neck. Although, after our last meeting… on second thoughts, I think I'll stay where I am."

He shut his eyes as she appeared to be rushing him straight into a glass door – but when no crash came, he opened them again and realized that the door had opened of its own accord.

He seemed to know far less about daily life on Midgard than he had previously imagined.

They were now in a large flat area covered with some form of tar. He recognized it as the same substance they insisted on using to coat their roadways. Various vehicles were arranged in neat rows stretching as far as he could see from his current position.

"Stop!" came a shout from behind them.

Sol gave the wheeled chair a mighty wrench, and took off to the left.

A shot rang out. People dropped back, looking shocked. Loki remembered that this wasn't New York, where people ran screaming in terror. These people were more likely to look vaguely horrified and begin complaining about the state of the world.

"Bloody hell!" said Sol. "Shoot first, ask questions later!"

The S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were gaining on them due to a slight incline in the path which made it harder for Sol to maintain speed with the chair.

More shots. One of them ricocheted off a nearby lamp-post. He felt Sol's tremor.

"Sol," he said.

"Shut up!" came the (rather insulting) reply.

"Listen to me! Leave me here. Both of us won't make it out, but there's still time for you."

"What?" she sounded completely horrified. "No! I am not leaving you!"

"You must. It's your only chance."

"And let you get kidnapped and tortured? Certainly not."

A wave of pain crashed around his body. He ground his teeth, snarling, "Stupid, stubborn, _idiotic _mortal…"

"What did you call me?"

He winced, remembering their last argument, even though she wouldn't. "You weren't supposed to hear that. I… I'm sorry." He was startled to find that he meant it.

"So I should hope," she said with irritating smugness. "I'm trying to save your life here, after all."

A rueful half-smile crept across his lips. "Ha. I'm probably not worth the effort."

She leant down to growl fiercely in his ear, "If you ever say anything so ridiculous again, I'm going to slap you so hard you'll think the Milky Way broke into your head and took up residence."

He acquiesced with uncharacteristic meekness, and said nothing for a short while.

They raced along, weaving in and out between vehicles.

"Whatever you did to annoy these people must have been quite something!" she remarked presently, after yet another bullet had whined past her ear. "They're really not giving up."

"They won't," he sighed. "That's why I wanted you to go. Anyway, I did annoy them rather spectacularly, but I imagine they are overlooking that in favour of interrogating me, as you fear."

"Then why are they trying to kill us?"

"They're not trying to kill _us,_" he said pointedly.

There was a silence while those words sank in. "I see," she said, in a strangely hard voice. "Destroy the evidence, I suppose? What would they count me as – collateral damage? Unacceptable risk?"

"Possibly."

"Well, I'm sorry, but I refuse to die as collateral. If I have to die, I'd rather go down fighting."

"Sol, you fool, you can't _fight _these people – they are like a machine only interested in suppressing the existence of things they don't want people knowing about. I had an _army _and I lost. You are just one woman – how can you hope to win?"

"We'll talk about the army thing later. I've got to get you to my car without getting shot or kidnapped."

The agents had spread out and were attempting to hem Sol and Loki in. Sol saw a small opening, and shot through it, clipping the back of a silver vehicle with the edge of the chair. An agent suddenly appeared in front of them, blocking the way.

"Stop right there!" he commanded.

Sol ran him over with the chair. At least that was evidently her intention – what actually happened was that she caught him in the shins with the footrests, and while he swayed, off-balance from the impact, Loki reached up and hit him in the chest. He crumpled and fell in a heap.

"That was impressive," said Sol, manoeuvring him toward a medium-sized, black vehicle.

"Thank you," he said stiffly, cradling his fist. The punch had hurt him almost as much as it had hurt the agent.

Sol opened the door of the vehicle, and set about manhandling him into the seat. She had just got him in when more shots sounded, and she had to duck down, shutting the door as she did so.

The agents came thundering up, brandishing firearms, and looking grim. The one in front took another shot over the side of the vehicle. There was a yelp, and a scuffle.

Loki stopped breathing.

_Sol. _

The next thing he knew, she was in the seat next to him, slamming her door.

"Are you injured?" he asked, his voice tense with worry.

"Just a scratch," she said, doing something that made the vehicle rumble and shudder into life.

She backed it up with a swift turn, and burst through the agents as they attempted to hang onto the sides.

"Now we're _really_ on the run," she said with a wicked grin.

Loki decided he rather liked it.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Before I begin, I had a Thought the other day… all my chapter titles are partial lyrics from songs**, **and I should probably tell my dear readers which songs they are, and thereby also credit the artists. It would give you a chance to listen to some of my inspiration as well. So, here you are: **

**Chapter 1 – Title from: The End of All Things by Panic! At The Disco. **

**Chapter 2 – Title from: Auld Lang Syne, trad. Sung in English and Norwegian by Sissel. **

**Chapter 3 - Title from: Demons by Imagine Dragons. **

**Chapter 4 – Title from: Mad World by Tears for Fears.**

**Chapter 5 – Title from: Heaven Knows by The Pretty Reckless. **

**Chapter 6 – Title from: E.T. by Katy Perry. **

**And from now on I shall credit the title at the beginning of each chapter. **

**Of course, the usual disclaimer applies, my readers, be not deceived into thinking I own anything except original stuff. **

**Read on! **

**Chapter 7: Can't Do This Again**

**(Title from – Love Me Again by John Newman.)**

The car was not Sol's preferred sleeping area. It was too cramped, too hard, too awkward in all the wrong places. She woke up groggily wondering why all the springs in her mattress were sticking into her back, only to find that the cause of the problem was, in fact, the handbrake.

She sat up too quickly, and bashed her head. "Ow!"

Belatedly remembering the injured, sleeping extraterrestrial in the other seat, she looked around with a grimace, hoping her exclamation of pain hadn't woken him.

He was still asleep, paler than anyone should ever be, and with a knot in the white skin between his jet-black eyebrows. His arms were crossed over his chest – even in sleep he looked ready to leap up and do battle. Except, of course, for the bandages she knew encased his torso underneath that silly-looking hospital gown. She frowned. His blanket had slipped, so it wasn't really doing any good at all, and he was not exactly dressed for the weather, but there was not a single centimetre of gooseflesh to be seen. In his place she would be shivering by now. She hoped he wasn't running a temperature. In his present condition that would be a big problem.

Very slowly and gently, she placed her hand on his forehead. He was slightly cool. Certainly no fever happening there. She breathed a sigh of relief.

Maybe he was one of those fortunate people who like the cold. Sol had always felt that, being descended from generations of tough Norwegians, she should be a bit better with cold weather than she actually was.

She mentally slapped her head. _Stupid_. He was from another planet – probably a colder environment, which would explain his lack of chill in this frosty early morning.

Aliens might like the cold, but Sol needed warmth now, so she turned the car heater on. It was only a slight improvement, but for now it would have to do, as to get anything more out of the heater she would have to turn the engine on, and she wanted him to sleep as long as possible.

She thought back to the bizarre, helter-skelter events of yesterday. Dragging a severely injured alien out of hospital to protect him from the Men In Black had been crazy enough, but when it had escalated into assault on more than one of said suited thugs, and then sleeping in the car off-road to avoid them, perhaps things had gone a little too far. Still, it was done, and she and E.T. there would have to make the best of it. She did wonder how she was going to look after him, though. Despite her concern for his safety and her sympathy toward him, there was no denying that he had shown signs of being somewhat on the difficult side. She hoped she wasn't going to regret this, but she had a nasty feeling that she probably would.

He groaned softly, making her abandon her thoughts and return her attention to him. He was moving, in the painfully gradual way that people do when they are surfacing from deep sleep. The knot in his forehead tightened, and his eyes fluttered open.

Sol was struck, for what had to be the tenth time, by just how big they were, and how startling and lustrous a shade of greyish green – and it really didn't seem fair for a man, alien or otherwise, to have such incredible bone structure and such beautifully long eyelashes.

"Are we still in your vehicle?" He seemed surprisingly alert for someone who just woke up.

"I'm afraid so."

"We cannot hide in it forever," he said, voicing the concern that had been bouncing around the back of her mind for some time now.

"I know," she said, "but I'm out of ideas now."

"I shall give it some thought."

"We have a problem," said Sol, hesitant to bring it up so quickly, but then he did seem to be in that frame of mind, so maybe it would be alright after all. "We need food, and you need clothes."

He looked down at himself with a strange expression. "Damn."

"We sort of left in a hurry, remember?" She was trying not to laugh, but his chagrin was really quite hilarious. "And your old clothes were wrecked."

He shook his head slowly from side to side. "Have you any suggestions?"

She gaped at him. Somehow, she had expected him to have a solution down pat. "Er… well I suppose we'll have to get to town without being seen, and go and buy what we need before trying to disappear again."

He clicked his tongue in frustration. "If only I could still do the things I used to. I could solve all our problems instantly."

She could feel her eyebrow rising. "Instantly? Isn't that a little presumptuous? Or is it exaggeration for effect?"

"Neither," he said, quite seriously, but he was clearly not going to elucidate, so she tried pushing.

"I think it's about time you started spilling the beans, Mr Not From Around Here. Where _are_ you from?"

He was staring into middle distance. He looked exhausted all of a sudden – more than that, he looked lost. Sol felt a sharp pang in the region of her heart. He was so tall, so obviously imposing when not injured and ill, and yet just now he looked like a small boy who has wandered off during a family picnic and has no idea where he is.

The look vanished as he turned his attention to her. "The realm I once called my home is beyond anything you will have imagined."

She grinned with a slight eyeroll. He was so bloody supercilious – even dressed in a stupid, woefully inadequate hospital gown and clearly battered to within an inch of his life, he somehow managed to look like an aristocrat peering down his noble nose at everything.

"My imagination might surprise you," she said, surprising herself instead.

He shot her a look that said _No chance._

"I really want to know more about you." Sol waited for a silent moment before playing her ace. "I think you owe it to me, actually. Surely it's only fair. I rescued you from the Men In Black, and all I'm asking in return is a little information."

He sighed. She got the feeling that he was hiding behind his annoying superior attitude in order to avoid talking, and all at once a little stab of guilt made its presence felt. He was ill and in pain, he was obviously drained, and she was demanding he tell her his life story. It wasn't fair. "Sorry. I didn't think. I'm too excited about talking to an extraterrestrial being and didn't give any thought to the fact that you're wounded and no doubt still worn out from me dragging you out of hospital and halfway across town and into the middle of nowhere yesterday. You don't have to talk now."

His eyes were very deep, she discovered. They seemed to be full of all sorts of incomprehensible things; secrets nobody should ever know, emotions he would never let out, and memories he didn't want to possess.

"No. I will tell you. You are right – it's only fair that I give you something in return for your… consideration."

She frowned. Hearing him repeat her words made her prized ace seem rather cold and actually somewhat mean. "I – I didn't mean…"

He cut her off with a wave of his hand. "No. You asked for information, and I will give it. The place I used to call home in a realm far away from this one, and it is named Asgard."

_Asgard?_ Sol actually squeaked. "Asgard? You're joking, right?"

"You seem to know the name," he said, an arrested look in those ridiculous green orbs.

"Well, _yes_. I'm Norwegian, of course I know about Asgard!"

He seemed confused. "Curious," he muttered. "And yet you have never heard my name?"

"Should I have?"

His eyebrows rose.

"I'll take that as a yes," she said. "Are you famous? How have I not heard of you if you are?"

"That is what confuses me," he said with awkward honesty. "_Infamous_ would probably be a better word."

Infamous? Who was this man? Alien. Extraterrestrial being. Oddity.

"Does the appellation 'God of Mischief' mean anything to you?"

She shook her head. It didn't. Wait a minute… "Are you trying to tell me you're a god?"

He sighed again. "I have been informed," he gritted his teeth, "that we are not gods. Your people viewed as such for centuries, but we are simply… different. We outlive you by millennia, we understand things about the universe that are only just now beginning to dawn on you, and we are, generally speaking, stronger and taller than you. But we are… _not_ gods." It seemed to hurt him to admit it.

"Ok. So you're saying that Asgard is a real place. So by extension, all the gods from the myths are real too? Only they're not gods, just extraterrestrial beings?"

He nodded, curtly.

She felt as if the entire text of the Encyclopaedia Britannica had just been downloaded into her brain and was currently turning her frontal lobe into a kaleidoscope. "Wow."

He said nothing.

The Encyclopaedia stopped spinning, and she began to process the information properly. "Actually, that makes sense…"

His eyes were closed again, but he said, very quietly, "Your theories, Solrun?"

It was like a slap to the face. At first she had been confused and a little irritated by his use of her pet name, mainly because she associated it with her dad, and anyone else touching that seemed somehow wrong. But now she was used to it, and his sudden reversion to using her full name felt chilly and formal.

"Don't," she said.

His eyes opened. "Don't what?"

His voice seemed oddly frosty; she shivered. "You called me by my full name. I'd rather you carried on calling me just Sol."

"Is your name unpleasant to you?"

She shrugged. "Well, it's a bit weird, don't you think? _Secret of the sun_… I mean, it sounds like a bad mystery book."

"You always used to be intrigued by it," he said – and then pressed his lips tightly together as if he had said something wrong.

"Ok, look – I know you're tired, but you really need to start explaining yourself. What's going on? What's with all the creepy previous knowledge of me doing and saying things I wouldn't ever do or say?"

He heaved a short, hard sigh – a mixture of frustration and anxiety. "It is complicated. I'm not quite sure of the truth myself yet. But I knew you, Sol. Once. I knew you, and yet I no longer know you. You are different – and you do not remember me."

Sol was taken aback by the almost tangible sorrow in his voice. Nothing ever seemed to disturb this strange, reserved person (except the lift, of course), and yet just now she could have sworn there were unshed tears in his eyes. And then he blinked, and she thought she must have been mistaken; there was nothing in his eyes at all.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Apologies to LordofAmus for this belated recognition – thank you so much for reviewing! I really do appreciate it. **

**Disclaimer: If I owned anything except original stuff, I wouldn't be anywhere near as impecunious as I am…**

**Chapter 8: Look at the Wonderful Mess that We Made**

**(Title from – Flaws by Bastille.)**

When he'd said he would give their situation some thought, Sol had not quite envisioned _this. _Just how she ended up adding theft to the ever-lengthening list of crimes she had committed in the last two days, she couldn't rightly say – it had all happened so fast. One minute she was listening with increasing discomfort and scepticism to his plan; the next, she was stealing a luxury yacht. She was beginning to understand that life with Loki would probably be characterized by this sort of thing.

He seemed to think that having done the masterminding of this nefarious yet practical plan, he could sit back and let her do all the actual work. Admittedly, he was injured, but still, she had no intention of allowing him to get away with doing _nothing. _

They had left the wheelchair behind. He insisted he was strong enough. She argued. He won, mostly by steamrollering her with the aristocratic chilly glare that would probably win almost any dispute. She hoped it wasn't going to be a regular occurrence, but something told her that he would never give up anything without a fight. He was just so _stubborn_, but when she told him this in a moment of intense irritation, he looked at her as if she had insulted him in the worst possible way, and said stiffly,

"Stubborn? That is not a characteristic normally applied to me." He'd said it as if it was normally applied to someone else (probably by him!) but shut down when she tried to probe. She had stared thoughtfully at his perfect profile before dropping the subject with rare tact. It was probably best to pick battles wisely.

So, yes, he had won that round – but the hitch in his step didn't escape her watchful eyes, and despite his best efforts, she heard the slight, sharp intake of breath every time he moved too quickly for himself.

The yacht was his brainchild. She wasn't sure how he had known it would be there, but when you are helping a mulish, condescending alien to steal a high-end yacht, you tend not to ask too many questions lest he decide to walk off and leave you to deal with the police on your own.

Once they were on board, his inertia had suddenly vanished. He wanted to be in charge – not only that, he wanted to do everything and be everywhere. His typical studied indifference was replaced with a simmering, almost manic joy, as if he was taking life by the scruff of its neck and conquering it with fierce delight. It was only a yacht, but to him it seemed to represent something far greater.

Unfortunately, the spirit's eagerness was not in direct proportion to the strength of the flesh, and he tired very quickly. Sol took control of the craft from his exhausted yet protesting fingers.

"You're in no condition to be piloting."

He muttered something she didn't hear – judging from his tone she thought it was probably just as well – and stared fixedly ahead.

"Loki, now is really not the time for another battle of wills! You're going to run yourself into the ground. I know you're enjoying yourself, but don't forget how badly injured you are."

He snarled at her, his eyes narrowed. "I'm hardly in danger of forgetting that."

"Then let me pilot."

One long stare and a heavy sigh later, the yacht was under Sol's command, and the recalcitrant extraterrestrial was leaning weakly against the door. He really didn't look well.

"Why don't you go and sit down somewhere? There are some very nice sofas and things dotted around the decks. You really like to do things in style, don't you?"

He managed a breathy chuckle. "So I've been told."

After a little while, when there was no sound from behind her, Sol looked around, and saw that he had apparently taken her advice. That was a first. He must have been in even worse shape than she'd thought.

Her confidence was misplaced – a few moments later she heard him muttering to himself just outside the door. She rolled her eyes. Hopeless.

The yacht had now reached the place in the middle of nowhere that Sol had deemed safe, at least for a short time. It wouldn't do to stay in any one place for too long, but for now it would do. She stopped the motor, and proceeded to drop anchor. It took a little time despite their having previously laid out the anchor and a reasonable length of rode on deck. A memory flashed into her mind; the first time her father had taken her out on his motor launch. "Never forget to lay out the rode so it won't tangle as it goes down," he'd said. So proud of her when she'd got it all right.

She backed down on the anchor with a lump in her throat.

Loki's voice floated across to her presently, slightly muffled. "Why do you suppose the previous owners of this vessel chose to transport a hundredweight of salt?"

Ah, so he was exploring. She smiled a bit at his choice of words. 'Previous owners' – as though they were now the owners of the yacht! Apparently 'finders keepers' was not a purely human concept. Then she thought about what else he'd said, and frowned. "Salt?"

"Yes," he said. "There is a large chest in the hold, which contains myriad small packages of salt. I suppose they are packed this way for convenience, but a cargo of several hundred cachets seems rather excessive, even for a long voyage. Unless they were intending to preserve meat along the way."

Something clicked in Sol's mind. "Er, Loki… I don't think it's salt."

"I believe you are correct," came the reply after a moment. "Or if it _is_ salt, something has happened to it. I must say it tastes most peculiar."

She ran to the hold. "Oh _please _tell me you didn't!"

He had. In his hand was an opened plastic sachet, and his face was screwed up into an expression of mystified disgust. "What in the Nine did they intend to do with this? It is not suitable for seasoning, in any event. Perhaps we should jettison it."

"Loki, I think we need to talk. I may know why nobody is chasing us."

He gave her an inquiring look.

"Nobody is chasing us because the owners of this yacht are smuggling drugs. No wonder they haven't told the police and harbour authorities! The last thing they want is a load of uniforms carrying out an inspection."

His bewilderment was evident, but then his brow cleared. "If I understand you correctly, we just stole a ship from criminals. And who says two wrongs make not a right!"

He seemed to be seeing the funny side; his face lit up with a large grin and he started to laugh, a husky, soft chuckle. It was downright freaky.

"Ok, that's enough… how much of that did you take?"

He shrugged. "I tried tasting it, but the flavour was not strong enough for me to identify it, so I tested some more. I still could not identify it, but it is definitely not salt."

"I know that! Here, give me the sachet."

He handed it over. He had 'tested' a fair amount. Sol felt the panic begin to well up inside her. "Loki, are Asgardians… do you have immunities to things?"

His eyes gleamed with wicked amusement. "I am stronger than you, if that is what you mean," he said.

"I mean, are you impervious to toxins?" She willed her voice not to crack. For some reason she didn't want him to know just how much danger he might be in.

"Impervious? No. But no doubt better equipped to deal with them than the average Midgardian."

She breathed again. "Well I think we're about to test that theory firsthand."

He blinked, apparently weighing this information. But his next question was not the one she was expecting. "Why were these people carrying poison?"

"Money," said Sol, briefly. "This particular kind of poison happens to be worth an awful lot. Mostly because it's illegal and dangerous."

He nodded sagely. "That is always a motivating factor for the shallow, weak-minded and greedy in any realm."

He was taking it very calmly.

"Loki… I'm sorry." A sort of desperation drove the words from her mouth.

"Why?"

"Well…" she floundered. "I sort of got you into this…"

"You helped me escape from S.H.I.E.L.D."

"From _what_?"

He looked puzzled. "The idiots in suits. I suppose you do not know who they are. Those high-class thugs are but a few of the tools used by a largely secret and wholly regrettable organization known, for simplicity's sake, as S.H.I.E.L.D. I've never understood the Midgardian penchant for silly acronymic designations…" he broke off, shaking his head slowly as though trying to dislodge water from his ears.

It made sense that Sol didn't know. Naturally, an organization sent to deal with possible extraterrestrial activity _would_ be anonymous and secret. What didn't make so much sense was that he _did_ know. She wondered, wit a shock of slight repulsion, whether he was telepathic. _Oh, God. _

But right now there were more pressing concerns than whether or not Loki of Nowhere In Particular could read minds. He was now gazing skyward, a look of sleepy rapture drifting across his face. Apparently the non-salt was starting to affect him.

She managed to get him to the upper deck before he collapsed in a heap of uncharacteristically benevolent smiles and improbably long legs. As attractive as the flybridge undoubtedly was, she had severe qualms about taking him up there in his present condition. She shut her eyes against a horrifying vision of him tipping himself gently over the railings and disappearing into the sea below. No, he was much better off staying on the upper deck.

He was unbelievably relaxed, loose-limbed in a way she hadn't thought possible. Even when he was weakened and foggy from painkiller and the resultant allergic reaction, there had always been an underlying tension, like a strong, steady undertow in a seemingly calm body of water. He was controlled, hard of mind and muscle, a level-headed, sharp, masterful creature of whipcord, wit, and steel, who bore absolutely no resemblance to the abandoned thing currently lying boneless across the sofa. His head was tipped back, and he was laughing, the cut-glass lines of his face softened and youthful, eyes alight with ecstatic mirth at something far beyond his reach.

The laughter died down and she realized he was watching her, staring from his upside-down position.

"Sol," he said carefully.

"That's me!" She felt very stupid for saying it, but it wasn't as if she had much experience in conversing with intoxicated aliens.

"You r'mind me of someone…" His syllables had developed a tendency to run into each other, and his voice lacked its usual crisp precision.

"I wish I could return the favour but you're not like anyone I've ever met!"

"Therar…" he frowned, concentrating. "There are no men like me." He giggled softly. "But you know me, don't you, Sol...?"

"Well, if rescuing you from a hospital and getting stuck on a stolen yacht with you while you're accidentally high constitutes knowing you, then yes, I think I qualify."

The giggle was getting steadily more high-pitched as time went on. He suddenly stopped, and stared at her with eyes rendered even bigger than usual by the narcotic. HE studied her, apparently committing everything to memory. "Don' think I ever said I'm sorry. Said a lottv' things I wish I han't. Never said the thing I should. Sickv' telling lies. So'm sorry. No good saying I didn't mean it… I did. I wanted to … hurt you. But I'm sorry."

Sol was touched. Definitely on the edge of being very freaked out, but still touched. It seemed to her that the drug had stripped away his very evident defences, and therefore anything he said now was coming directly from his heart instead of being filtered, sharpened, twisted and shielded. This was pure honesty – something she had a funny feeling he wasn't exactly used to. So it was touching that, in this state of vulnerable truth, what he wanted to do was apologize to her. It didn't even matter that she had no idea what he was apologizing _for._ They very fact that he was doing it was more than enough.

He had wandered into a dream-like state, his eyes glazing over as he lazily waved a hand around. He seemed to phase back into awareness after a fashion. He examined his hand as if it was some strange artefact, and then replaced it carefully on his chest. "Sol?"

"Yes?"

"You're still here. 'S good." There was a pause. "Where _is_ 'here'?"

"We're on a yacht, remember?"

"Oh, yes," he said vaguely. "Boat. Luvly boat. Luvly sea. Luvly _Sol. _I miss you."

Then he turned over very ungracefully and flopped down on his front, wrinkling his brow at her. He looked like an overgrown schoolboy, childishly genuine and totally uninhibited. "You don' remember me."

"No," she agreed, because really, what else was there to say?

The furrows in his pale forehead deepened. "I'm _glad _you don' remember."

For some reason, that was heartbreaking. More heartbreaking than ten minutes later, when he started wailing about being a monster. More heartbreaking than five minutes after that, when he threw a cushion at the window and snarled that _nothing was fair._ More heartbreaking even than when his drugged, irrational wrath finally broke and he began to cry instead.

She approached him cautiously when the huge, gulping sobs had quieted, and sat down beside him on the white sofa. She laid a tentative hand on his back. He trembled, stiffened, and then with a shuddering gasp, he turned and enveloped her in a crushing, clinging, desperate embrace.

He would not let go.

Even when he at last fell into a deep sleep, his arms encircled her. Sol sighed, resigning herself. She shifted, to reduce the danger of her waking up with dead limbs and the prospect of pins-and-needles, and he made a tiny sound of contentment and settled himself so that she was completely surrounded by his body.

It was going to be a long night.

"What happened last night?"

She forced her eyes open. They did not appreciate this abuse. "Loki?"

She blinked up at him, disoriented, before her brain kicked in and centred her, lying on the sofa, with a very stiff and correct non-god standing just in front of her, pretty much vibrating with discomfort and irritation.

"Last night?" Her brain hadn't quite kicked in _that_ much yet.

"I awoke on that couch instead of in my berth. You were… underneath me." His distaste was palpable, but she sensed it was a cover for something else. Something very much like raw panic.

"You took drugs by mistake. You were fine to start with, but then the effects started to manifest themselves. You became remarkably placid."

He looked suspicious, but it might have been alright had her dreadful sense of humour not prompted her to add with a wicked smirk, "…and surprisingly affectionate." _This is why you tell everyone you're not a morning person,_ said the little voice in her head. _It's mainly for their protection._

His eyes flashed once with an ill-concealed fury, and then they blanked again, and his entire face settled into a mask of cold menace. "What happened?" His teeth were clenched so hard that it was a miracle any words were able to escape at all.

"Nothing," she said, deciding to let him off. "You giggled a lot, and you apologized to me but I'm still not sure why – I suppose it's all mixed up with the 'knowing me before' thing – and then you ranted for a bit about how unfair life is, and you cried (which, by the way, was _really_ peculiar) and then you wrapped yourself around me and went to sleep. That's all. Nothing happened. You didn't even snore."

He was seething. She could practically _touch_ the outrage rippling out of him like seismic eruptions. "Of course nothing happened," he bit the words off with harsh irony. "I simply made a thrice-damned fool of myself and effectually destroyed any credibility I might have had with you."

She should have been afraid. He was, from an objective standpoint, completely terrifying like this; looming over her, exuding a strength she had only guessed at, eyes burning with cold fire, every word a hissed reminder of how powerful he was and how helpless she was. And yet she did not feel fear. What she felt was, bizarrely, a mixture of irritation and amusement.

"Honestly, Loki – if credibility is what you're concerned about, I can tell you right now that I've already seen you unconscious and bleeding on the floor, not to mention lying broken in a hospital bed and wearing a truly laughable gown provided by the same establishment… seeing you accidentally out of your head on drugs could hardly make things any worse."

If the cold fire in his eyes had burned before, it fairly raged now, threatening to consume him from the inside out. "How _dare_ you take that tone with me, you… you _insect_! You are _nothing. _Less than nothing. A puny, insignificant mortal – do you know how much of my power it would take for me to crush you with my fingertips? To reduce you to a mere shadow of dust at my feet, where you belong?"

"Almost none, I should think." Sol had no idea where these recklessly courageous words were coming from, but they seemed to have an effect. He glared at her for precisely four seconds, as though willing her to burst into flame under his gaze, and then without speaking he turned on his heel and swept off in the direction of the door.

It slammed shut behind him.

Sol breathed.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Well I'm very glad you all liked the last chapter so much! Most gratifying! **

**Thank you to Puddings-and-Tea and LordofAmus for reviewing with your reactions. Please do continue to let me know how you feel about my writing - it means so much to me to know someone enjoys my work. **

**P.s. I'm not pushing, but I do think it might add to the experience if you listened to my 'soundtrack'…**

**Disclaimer: As usual, I own nothing recognizable, blah blah blah… **

**En avant! **

**Chapter 9: More Like Me **

**(Title from – Numb by Linkin Park.)**

He couldn't believe how close he had come to losing it completely with her. The horrified anger had simply risen up inside him and burst out in a torrent of ugly words. Shame prickled up and down his back. After all this time trying to prove himself better than his origins, he still managed to behave like the monster he was. She hadn't helped, with her aggravating, foolhardy humour – but she was just a mortal, just a Midgardian, just a child when compared to himself. She should perhaps have known better, but there was absolutely no excuse for his own behaviour. The trouble was that he didn't know if he could bring himself low enough to apologize. His fear of appearing foolish and weak had grown from a nasty shadow to a great and terrifying monster of gargantuan proportions, shrieking at him from every corner of his mind. But that was always his problem.

His mind dredged up a memory, something that happened a long time ago – a different time, a different place. Sol, disturbed by his ethics, hovering on the edge of outrage. Himself, cool and quietly haughty, baiting her, watching from under half-closed eyelids.

_**You WANT to inspire hatred and terror? **_

_Her voice is incredulous, her eyes full of censure. _

_He shrugs, a tiny, nonchalant gesture that seems to anger her. _

_**Hate is volatile, but powerful when handled correctly. Fear is more predictable and less difficult to control, but no less powerful. **_

_She is fired up now, ready to do battle. He likes her this way, even if she always manages to say the wrong thing and constantly expose her naivety. _

_**But rulers who lead by exploiting hate and fear often fail. Our history is full of revolutions, assassinations and depositions that prove that point. **_

_He gives her a superior look. _

_**Then those rulers who were overthrown, assassinated and deposed were clearly not skilful enough in their wielding of power. **_

_Her eyes are troubled now, big, clear, topaz-coloured and worried. _

_**Surely gaining obedience by inspiring admiration, love and respect is better? **_

_**It depends what you mean by 'better'. **__His tone is dry. __**It's certainly far harder to maintain. And distressingly easy to lose. **_

_She won't give in. He admires her spirit even as her insistence irritates him like grit in an oyster. _

_**Ease and expediency shouldn't be the only qualifiers for superiority! **_

_He rolls his eyes at her foolish idealism. _

_**And where in the leaders of your society are the love and admiration you prize so highly? They are the worst possible combination of weakness and greed. They rule neither with strength nor with kindness, but with lies. And the lies are not even clever ones. Your reasoning is flawed, Sol. **_

He never would admit that she was right, even if he felt it.

He shook his head at himself, past and present. He had been (and to a large extent, was still) brimming with hate and fear – he knew those emotions inside out. He knew how they worked, and thus how to manipulate them in others. 'Better' motivations were barely worthy of thought. Admiration was tainted by envy, love by lies; and respect was a thing of the distant past. Her insistence on their value had been as puzzling to him as it was infuriating.

His arrogance was vicious, yet founded far more in crippling doubt than in any true feeling of superiority. But that doubt made him react like a cornered wild beast when he felt threatened.

And whatever had happened last night definitely made him feel threatened. Loss of control – the thing second only to failure on his mental list of terrors – loss of both fear and respect, loss of his precious, carefully woven image. Nobody was _ever_ allowed to see the real Loki. Except for two people, but they no longer mattered, because one of them was dead, and the other thought _him_ dead.

The idea that he had accidentally bared his inner soul to this little mortal who did not even remember him made his teeth ache from sheer panic. How would he be able to control the situation if she no longer saw him either as the suave creature who took everything in his stride or as the powerful Prince of Asgard? It was bad enough that she had already seen him wounded and weak, but to know what was really going on underneath all his masks…! Unacceptable. And what made it ten times worse was that he knew quite well that for all his talk of crushing her with his fingertips, his power was almost nonexistent. The impotent fury of a thwarted monarch warred with an overwhelming desire to crawl into a dark corner and hide.

In the end, he retreated to the lower deck and locked himself in the berth that was almost too luxurious to be called such.

If he had lost control of the situation, at least he did not have to witness it.

He slept.

He healed. Slowly. His wounds still bled sluggishly if he tried to move around too much, and his body ached from head to foot, but he was very gradually beginning to knit back together again. He had survived worse even when he had not wished to, and he was damned if he would let himself die this time.

But he did not eat. There was no food in the berth, and he refused to creep out and be caught with his hand in the larder, so to speak. He told himself very firmly that he did not require sustenance, and went back to sleep whenever the hunger became too noticeable.

After the twelfth time he had sternly commanded his stomach to think of other things, there was a knock at the door.

If he ignored it, she would go away.

"I know you're in there, Loki, so you can stop pretending otherwise."

If he ignored her…

"Loki, I understand that you're annoyed, but it's ridiculous to lock yourself away in there without food. You're just hurting yourself."

He knew. But he was not going to admit it to her.

"Loki, please open the door."

He shut his eyes.

"Loki?" Her voice cracked.

_Oh, damn it all. Now she's frightened. _

But before he had a chance to do more than begin to ease himself from the horizontal to the vertical, she had kicked the door in, and was lying on the floor in a tumbled heap of denim and complaints. She stood up and rubbed her knees.

"You're alive!" she looked ecstatic. His heart contracted.

And then she remembered, and a stern expression clouded her elfin face. "You're _alive_, so I can tell you off. Never, ever, _ever_ lock me out again. You could have died in here, all by yourself with no food or anything, and only because you're too cursedly proud to let me in, you stupid bastard."

The effect of this was electric. He couldn't help it. That word, with all its disgusting, terrible connotations, made his unhappy stomach heave.

"Do not call me that!" he growled, leaping to his feet with a vigour that surprised even him.

Sol folded her arms, clearly unimpressed. "I don't see the need for all these histrionics. I only said-"

"Yes, thank you, I heard quite well the first time. I do not know what things have come to on Midgard, but where I come from that word is still a gross insult, and I will not brook this sort of offensive abuse."

She stared at him. "Ok, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said it. But my God, you'd try the patience of a saint."

"How would you know?" he snapped, immediately regretting it.

"I'm well aware I'm no saint, but you don't get to say things like that if you're going to take umbrage at me calling you a bastard."

"I take umbrage because it is _true_!" said Loki.

There was a long, pregnant silence, during which he eviscerated himself for letting slip the one thing he really hadn't wanted to say.

She sat down on the bed. "Well. I'm terribly sorry I said anything. I had no idea. It's just a term of abuse I use when I'm irritated with someone – I never meant to actually call into question your parentage."

"Ha. My parentage."

"I think you'd better start from the beginning."

"This is not a _child's tale_," he spat. "There is no happy ending. Two worlds were at war. The king of one world left his illegitimate runt out on a rock to die. The king of the other world picked it up and took it home with him because he foresaw an opportunity to manoeuvre things later on. His plans did not come to fruition. The runt grew up always knowing he was different, but never _why_, until it was revealed to him one day by the merest coincidence that he was the unwanted offspring of the monster he had always viewed as his worst enemy. So he killed the monster, tried to validate his existence, failed, and fell off a bridge. He then fell into the hands of something even worse, tried to take over another world, and failed in that too. He was sent to prison for eternity. When his adoptive brother broke him out of prison, he tried to redeem himself, and I am sure it will come as no great surprise to you that he failed also in that. He then lied to everyone and pretended to be a king, was found out, and escaped like a coward from the end of his world. But try as he might, he could not escape his heritage, because he was a monster born of monsters, and the evil was in his blood. The end. You may now depart."

Sol's eyes had filled with tears. "I'm so sorry," she whispered.

He breathed a short, sarcastic laugh. "Don't be – it's a waste."

She stood up again, blinking the tears away with impatient motion. "Don't you dare tell me not to be sorry. You obviously view yourself as some kind of repellent beast, but that's not how you appear to me. You're weird, you're stuck-up, you've got a horrible sense of humour, and you're a bloody nuisance when you refuse to let me help you, but you're not a monster."

"You have no idea," he said, almost sadly.

"Listen to me. I know you don't want to, because you're Loki of Somewhere Else and you've got a whole army of massive complexes that any psychologist would have a field day investigating, but you're going to listen to me because I'm right. This 'monster' that you see in yourself. You can't let that define you. Or the expectations you didn't meet. If you didn't meet them, you know what? It's only because they were too high. So stop brooding like a damn Victorian romantic hero, and be who you are. Stop trying to fit yourself into other people's ideals and make your own. Accept that you are not who you thought you were, and move on. You're above it all. You are _unique_, Loki. You are _you_."

If she had attempted to brain him with a door-handle he could not have been more astonished.

She seemed satisfied that she had left him utterly speechless, and moved toward the door.

"Now we've got that over with, I found pasta and tomatoes in the cupboard and apple crumble in the freezer. I'm hoping you know what both of those things are, but even if you don't, you're welcome to come and try them out. You know where the galley is."

She looked back as she was leaving. "Sorry about the door, but at least you won't be able to lock me out again. And by the way, I'm only going to say this once – you can, and doubtless will, do whatever the hell you like, but if you die on me I'm never speaking to you again."

He followed her to the galley.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Here we are again, dear readers… I can't believe I'm updating this quickly! Let's face it, this is how much I would update all the time if only I had sole use of our internet-enabled family pc…and of course there's that thing called Life which tends to get in the way a bit. Anyway, enough of my rambling. We left Loki and Sol having reached a sort of critical mass point in their very strange relationship. This is what happens next. **

**I'm sorry it's a short one this time – the next one will be longer, I promise.**

**Disclaimer: If you still labour under the delusion that I own any of the recognizable stuff, you evidently haven't been reading my notes, therefore I deem you unworthy of this chapter, this story, and the loved ones you…hang on. That doesn't seem right…**

**Chapter 10: Do You Feel Like a Puzzle**

**(Title from – Talk by Coldplay.)**

Pasta was interesting; perhaps a little bland for his taste, but definitely acceptable, especially in his present condition. He was far more ravenous than he had cared to admit even to himself.

Apple crumble was a miracle. Loki decided he wanted to eat it every single day – the only sad thing was that he had been alive for so many years without it. He would not have believed that anything Midgard offered could be so utterly delicious.

Sol talked. He listened. She asked questions, many of which he deflected. She smiled and scowled, and he battled with the various conflicting feelings she stirred, each one more puzzling and terrifying than the last. She poked fun at him, and he kept prodding back with little barbs of sarcasm, all of which she parried with cheerful skill. It seemed that she had vented all her frustration earlier, and was now impossible to provoke. Every mouthful of food she took relaxed her further, until by the end of the meal she was ready to tell him her entire life story. Under normal circumstances he would have lost the will to live halfway through her tale, but these were not normal circumstances, and he wished to know all he could about this different Sol.

Her personal history bore only superficial resemblance to what he had learned during their previous association. Her father had been involved with scientific research – that had not changed. What was different was the fact that his research had attracted the notice of what she described as the Powers That Be. Their attention was undesirable in the extreme as far as Sol was concerned. Her voice trembled as she recounted the things they had done to her father.

She had taken up where he left off, scientifically, but freely admitted that she did not measure up to his standards. Loki could not fathom her acceptance of this.

"Is it not a source of frustration to you, this feeling that your work is inferior to his?"

Her eyebrows knotted slightly. "Not really. I choose not to view my work as inferior – just different."

"And yet you tell me that you will never achieve his level of expertise."

"I said that his were large shoes for me to fill! He spent twenty-nine years researching and studying his field – I've only been doing the same, officially, for the last nine. Ask me again in twenty years."

He scoffed. "Twenty years is hardly enough time for anything to change…" and then stopped short on seeing the look on her face. "Why do you stare at me so?"

"Because you forget that on Earth, twenty years is a long time. Look how we've grown and changed in the last twenty years, and then stretch that into the future. I can do a lot in that space of time, Loki. You are so used to seeing everything on such a large scale that you forget it isn't like that for everyone else. We are small and insignificant to you, but things that seem trivial to an extraterrestrial who lives for millennia are of vital importance to us. We have only a few short years to make our mark on the world, and when you live for less than a century, every minute counts."

"This world is fractured," he said dismissively.

"But in twenty years' time, maybe it won't be. Maybe we will grow wiser, and be able to resolve and celebrate our differences, maybe we will realize that greed is a bad motivator, and just maybe we will be able to put our past behind us."

"Or maybe you will destroy yourselves with one of your precious nuclear fission devices."

"That's a very cynical outlook, Loki."

"I have no patience with idealism," he growled. It was partly true. "Your people will never grow wiser until they accept that they cannot solve their own problems. They require someone to guide them. Their need for rule is built into them. Without a strong, unified leadership, they fall victim to their own petty squabbles, and end by killing themselves."

"Is that how you see us?" Was that _hurt_ in her face?

"Is that not how you _are_?" He stared her down, because he was right, and he knew it.

She dropped her eyes and moved her cutlery around unnecessarily. "Perhaps so. But who would you suggest to be that leader? You?" She was looking right at him again, and shot the question into him like a defiant missile.

"Once, I thought I could," he said, past caring that he was letting out far too much information. "But I failed, because I always do."

She gasped. "So when you said you tried to take over another world, you meant… _Earth_?"

He nodded.

"How do I not know about this?"

"I… have been pondering this mystery. I believe that while I was escaping from Asgard, something happened to the branch of the tree. My destination remained unchanged, but the reality shifted – possibly an effect of the disturbance I left behind me, and the fact that my power was weakened by my wounds. I did not think to make sure my pathway was undamaged. Fire is a powerful force, and its reach is long."

"Just a minute… branch? Tree? You'll have to explain all this to me, because I'm just an insect after all."

"If that was an attempt to garner an apology from me, I must tell you it will not succeed."

"No, I know you only apologize when you're under the influence. Good thing there's plenty of that stuff left…"

For a moment he truly thought that she meant it. "I refuse to ingest any more of that wretched toxin! I will throw it overboard at once!"

"Calm down! You didn't think I was serious, did you? Good grief, we need to work on your sense of humour. Now, tell me about the tree. I'm interested."

He explained Yggdrasil, and she gratified him by seizing the idea with both hands and becoming very enthusiastic.

"Now, I did not travel along one of the larger branches – over time I have discovered secret ways along the paths between the realms. I have mapped them in my mind, and they do correspond to some of the pathways used in normal passage, but for some reason they are hidden. Unless one knows where to look, they are almost indiscernible. I call them _hljóðkvistar_."

"'Quiet twigs'?"

"'Silent branches'," he corrected with a tiny smile. "They speak only to me."

"So your theory is that the fire and confusion on Asgard, plus the effect of your injuries on your own power, distorted the… _hljóðkvistr_… you were travelling. And, what? You fell through into a different universe?"

"Simply put, yes. It is not unreasonable to assume that other realities exist. Time and space are fluid yet solid in a way even I do not fully understand."

"A little like light behaving as both particles and waves?"

"A little," he acknowledged. He did not really wish to be sidetracked into a discussion of Midgardian scientific understanding. "If we assume that other realities do exist, but are veiled from us by the fluidity of time and space, I conjecture that at certain points along the paths, the tips of the branches of Yggdrasil may almost connect with those on the other side. My hypothesis is that the veil was warped and weakened by the phenomena I have already explained, and in consequence, instead of continuing along my own _hljóðkvistr_, I slipped through the divide and onto the corresponding branch in your reality. And, come to think of it, I was wrong when I said that my destination remained unchanged. I meant to visit London, because I believed you to be there."

"You were coming to me?"

A wave of intense discomfort nearly suffocated him, but he managed to nod, stiffly. What did it matter now, anyway?

Her eyes were shining. She leaned across the table toward him, saying in a voice that thrilled with discovery, "Don't you see? Your destination didn't change."

Utterly confounded, he simply stared at her until she explained herself.

"Your destination wasn't London, Loki – it was me."


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: So very sorry for the delay in updating; things went wrong this week and I couldn't get to the computer! Sorry it's a short chapter again this time. Certain things need working out before I can really get on with the story again, but I didn't want to neglect you totally. Thank you for reading, please stick with it! **

**Disclaimer: You know the score. I own nothing except original stuff. And a weird brain. **

**Chapter 11: The End Was Just Around The Bend **

**(Title from – It Was Always You by Ingrid Michaelson.)**

Sol dangled her legs over the side of the yacht. She had sat down at the bottom of the railings on the flybridge, and was looking out at the water, leaning her chin on her crossed arms which were arranged carefully on top of the lowest rail. She had moved the yacht four times so far, and as yet nobody had challenged her. Which was good. She didn't let herself get complacent, however, because the people Loki called S.H.I.E.L.D. were not the sort to give up easily. Her dad had been living proof of that – until he'd died as a result of their ministrations. She felt a sudden pain in her jaw, and realized that she had been grinding her teeth. It was a habit she had as a child, and she'd mostly outgrown it, but in times of prolonged stress it sometimes reared its head again. She couldn't let them get hold of Loki. Yes, he was an extraterrestrial with a shockingly bad attitude, but he was a person, and he was still injured. He was getting better, but she was sure he wasn't as well as he insisted on pretending. And she knew that his attitude was just a cover.

The night she had made that all-important discovery, he had gone extremely quiet for about twenty minutes, and had then stood up abruptly and left the galley. Sol had not followed him. He probably needed some time to figure things out. God knew _she_ did. Her insight into why he had arrived in the middle of nowhere was unsettling, to say the least. _Your destination was me, _she thought bitterly. Stupid idiot, blurting that out when she knew quite well he didn't cope with emotion and obligation. How was he supposed to feel about that? What had she expected him to do? The truth was, of course, that she hadn't expected anything. The solution to the mystery had just popped into her head, and she had blabbed it without any thought whatsoever.

She hadn't seen him for about two days, but she was not going to break his door down again, because this time it was her fault. And if he wanted food, he would find a way of obtaining it - no doubt clandestinely, in the middle of the night – and that was fine.

"One would think it possible to see the edge of the world, on a day like this."

His voice startled her; she hastily untangled herself from the railings, and stood up. "Loki! Er… good morning."

"You did not need to stand," he said. He looked surprisingly cheerful.

"That's ok. I was getting a bit stiff anyway from sitting in one position for too long."

He leant on the railings, almost relaxed. "Your sea is very restless."

"It's the Atlantic, in winter. It's got problems. Don't tell me you get seasick?"

He looked down his nose at her, but it was gentle mocking rather than the harsh sarcasm he normally dished out. "I do not suffer from anything of the sort. I was merely remarking on the difference between this sea and the ocean of my realm."

"What is Asgard like?"

"What is a rainbow to a butterfly?" he retorted, but his voice was tired. He folded his hands and leaned his wrists on the top railing, looking down at the water directly under him, three decks down. "It's glorious. Or it was. Once. It used to be a fantasia of gold and waterfalls, the villages picturesque and the hills so green and rolling… and in the midst of it the shining city rose up like a coruscating beacon, attached to the outer realms by the rainbow bridge that lights where your feet tread, and everything glowed like a thousand distant stars. Now it is ravaged by political unrest and the scarring sword of fire. The villages smoke and the hills are black; the trees that once grew so luxuriant are twisted and charred, and everywhere there is discontent and pain. I have earned myself the reputation of being an agent of chaos – but in truth that is _real_ chaos, and I do not like it."

Sol shivered.

"You should wear more clothing if you are cold," he said laconically, without looking at her.

"It is chilly," she agreed, "but I want to hear more."

"It is not a nice tale," he warned her.

"None of your stories are. But I don't always want hearts and flowers. Sometimes I want the truth."

"I became king through a set of unfortunate circumstances which led to my disguising myself as my predecessor. For a while, all was well – I managed things with wisdom and caution."

"..and humility," murmured Sol.

"If you are going to keep interrupting, I won't continue," he said, with absolutely no change in tone.

"Sorry, sorry – please keep going, I promise I'll shut up."

"Then from Alfheim came a boy who called himself a prince. He said he was the younger son of the king and queen, but had been lost as a baby and raised by the elves until he attained his majority, and then they told him of his true legacy. He was young and handsome, charming, smooth-spoken, and every single word he spoke was sucked in greedily by those who had already begun to desire change. I do not know whether what he said about his birth was true; he certainly seemed to believe it. I do know that a great deal of what else he said was completely false. I have some experience with lies, and in consequence I can usually tell when someone is not being honest. He lulled the people into believing in him. They hailed him as their saviour – the young and beautiful prince who would lead them out of the dust of centuries of tradition and legend, and urge them toward the dawn of a new and wonderful future. I had tried to instigate small changes here and there, but my hands had been largely tied by my disguise. The king could hardly change his mind about important things so quickly – that way lies suspicion and mistrust, and I could not afford it. Balder promised them everything they thought they wanted, and so they put the blind faith of their silly, suggestible hearts fully in him. In this way he raised an army to overthrow me. They besieged the shining city, killed a great number of loyal guards, and finally burned me out of my disguise. Of course, once they knew who I was, their rage knew no bounds. I've never been exactly popular. I tried to put a stop to their madness by killing their leader. If a cunning, irresponsible, self-serving boy such as Balder had succeeded in getting his hands on the throne of Asgard, it would have been a disaster. Instead of which, I caused Ragnarok. It was a gamble, and I lost."

Sol stared down at his hands, which had unfolded themselves and were now clutching the railing. "I'm sorry," she said. It was hopelessly inadequate, but it was heartfelt, and that was what he needed, if he needed anything.

"My reign could have been the new dawn they wanted so much, if only they had been patient."

"People never are. Whether they're Asgardian or human, they seem to be much the same really. People always want what they can't have, and if someone offers it to them they will pretty much jump off a cliff if that's what he says they have to do."

"It would have been far less awkward if they had done that," he said with the faintest spectre of a smile.

The waves lapped and pounced against the yacht, and Sol and Loki sank into a thoughtful silence, swayed by the rhythm of the sea.

"Will you ever go back?"

He turned his head at that one. "Go back? To what? Prison, possibly. Most likely execution. What I did will be considered high treason, and no-one will want to hear my side of the story. No, I shall never go back. There is nothing for me in Asgard now."

"But… what about _this _Asgard?" Sol's tongue was in gear before her brain again.

His eyes widened. "_This_ Asgard… No! No." But Sol could see his mind working feverishly behind his calm face.

"You could, though, couldn't you?"

"At the moment I am too weak to go anywhere," he said dismissively.

But the seed was clearly sown.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Hello everyone! **

**I have a roll-call of gratitude to list today. **

**LordofAmus, thank you again for your reviews! I know I keep saying this, but I really am so pleased that people are enjoying my tale. **

**Zena Alexander, thank you for agreeing to be my fabulous beta! Soon my evil plans will come to fruition and you will have the pleasure of knowing that you helped… so if my readers murder me, it's partly your fault. Haha! **

**Disclaimer : The only things I own are the evil plots of my bag-of-cats brain. OK? We clear? Excellent. Strap in, everyone, we're off again… **

**Chapter 12: Black Sand Burning **

**Title from – English translation ****of **_**Sofðu Unga Ástin Mín**_**, an Icelandic lullaby sung ****by**_**Ragnheiður Gröndal. **_

_Ash, night-black and gritty, burying the ground, obscures everything to make the world almost formless. Jagged edges of rock and broken ships jut up from the volcanic mass. Swirling, greenish mist chokes the air – thus befouled, the atmosphere seems to crouch, waiting to strike like some ancient, hideous evil lurking at the bottom of a shadow. But there is no-one for it to poison. Only a corpse, lying exposed and pitiful, isolated in a small valley plain between two rocky outcrops. The corpse is so pale it is almost grey, as if the ash is beginning to take possession of it already. Its hair, tangled, ravaged, is bleeding into the black ground, pooling like raven's blood. _

_A harsh, rattling breath. The corpse moves almost imperceptibly as the dormant life awakens. _

_It is a long struggle. The breaths come at a heavy price of pain. Eyes flicker open – large, grey-green gems, wet with bitter agony of body and soul. They take in the eerie, menacing surroundings, and a look of intense sorrow clouds their glow. Fine lips of a soft, narrow mouth, cracked and burned by pain and the howling wind of this desolate place, quiver and tremble as they form a single word, murmured – __**Why?**_

_And then a deeper breath enables the word to be wailed to the ominous sky in a long, heartbroken burst of emotion – __**WHY?**_

_Tears trickle wretchedly. Abject misery crushes him in its lethal grip. And the question echoes around his soul, clanging like a mournful bell in the hollow reaches of his heart. Why? Why could he not have died? Why did his broken body insist on clinging to the last shred of life and so force him back into consciousness, when all he desires is to sleep forever? _

_He lies on his back, refusing to move even though his entire body aches unbearably. It is a battle of wills. His body cleaves to life though his mind and heart cringe from it. _

_**I died with honour, doing what was right for once in my sorry existence. I felt the thrill of battle in vengeance for my mother, the exultation of knowing I truly mattered – and the sweetness of a death that could have redeemed me. Why should I live to ruin that?**_

_But his body wins. With a deep groan, he turns over to rest his weight on his bent forearms, feeling the blood pulse through his unwilling veins, feeling his power rise and fall, healing him. It surges to the messy hole in the middle of his abdomen, mending and weaving and knitting, and he cannot stop it. His entire torso is soaked with dark blood, and it's in his mouth too, tangy, metallic and strange. He feels nauseated, and not just because of the vile taste or even the pain. His last chance for redemption and peace, his one brief, shining attempt to be selfless and brave, has failed. _

_Of course he failed. He always does. What else could be expected of the bastard, miserably undersized offspring of a frost giant? He was born a disappointment, and the only pity is that he hasn't just died one. But why should it be that easy? He should have known, because he doesn't deserve it. _

_A bitter laugh tries to bubble up in his chest, and he coughs, spitting more blood. There is so much of it, oozing, flowing, dripping, pooling everywhere, seeping into his clothes and the ash beneath him. It feels and looks as though every last drop of the precious, vital fluid has drained from his body... and yet still, unbelievably, he is not dead. _

_Once again, he lives despite himself. _

_Sol crouched beside him, trying to drag him out of his dreams. He had woken her up with a particularly anguished howl, and she couldn't leave him tossing in the grip of what was clearly a hideous nightmare. _

_"Why, why?" he mumbled, forehead drawn into fine lines of misery. A tear ran down from his left eye, crossing his temple before disappearing into his hairline. "Please, no!" He was begging like a scared child, weeping softly now, his hands knotting in the fabric of his shirt. The sheets and covers of his bed were in a hopeless tangle somewhere around his feet, and two of his pillows had escaped onto the floor. The third was currently residing in a drunkenly lopsided position halfway down the bed. _

_Sol reached out a tentative hand. Loki was groaning now, muttering something about pain and no and mother. She knew he needed to wake up, but she wasn't sure how he would feel about her seeing him like this. Granted, she had already seen him wounded, sick and dressed in less-than-flattering hospital clothes, not to mention pushing him around in a wheelchair and then dealing with the slightly embarrassing interlude when he was under the influence – but this was different somehow. It was as if a chink in his personal armour had opened, unintentionally revealing a part of his soul. It was frighteningly intimate. _

_Her hand touched his chest – the muscles tightened under her fingers, and his eyes flew open. He shot upright, grabbing her wrists in a punishing grip, snarling, _

_"Dare touch me once more and I will ensure you never use your hands again."_

_She said nothing. He glared at her, breathing hard, the tears from his dream still shining in his eyes. She stared back, trying to calm her heart, which was beating madly. _

_His breathing slowed. "Forgive me, Sol," he muttered, his voice rusty with sleep. "Old habits die hard, they say. I'm not used to people waking me from my dreams."_

_"I didn't want to leave you in it," she said quietly, not letting him escape from her steady gaze. "It sounded like a truly horrible nightmare."_

_His eyelids flicked down. "It was," he said shortly. Then he looked up again. "Thank you for your concern, but next time you would be better off leaving me to my night terrors."_

_"We all have our demons, Loki. Yours just happen to come at night, when you're most vulnerable. I'd wake you again even if you made good on your promise to break my hands."_

_He dropped her wrists as if her skin had burnt him. "You know nothing about me. You don't know what I've done. From the moment I arrived I have endangered you indirectly, and just now I… Sol, did I hurt you?"_

_"Yes," she said, looking him right in the eyes. "But it doesn't matter."_

_His eyes clouded, green and confused. "Why do you persist?"_

_"I'm sorry, what?"_

_"Why do you bear with me? You don't remember me, so it isn't that. Yet you came to me when I was in that place of healing, and you refused to let me be taken for questioning, and you orchestrated my escape, and now you take care of me while I am in this wretched condition, even when I am unkind to you. Why?"_

_She took her time replying, mostly because she hadn't thought about it until now. "I don't know. I felt sorry for you when you collapsed in the pub. You probably hate that! But I felt sorry for you. And when you were in hospital… I couldn't leave you there by yourself. You seemed so alone. John Donne said 'No man is an island', but you were, and I didn't like it."_

_"John Donne seems to indulge in wishful thinking," was Loki's only observation on her reasoning. _

_"He was a poet," she said, as if that explained everything. "The truth is, I saw you."_

_His eyes were suddenly huge. "You saw me? How is that possible?"_

_"I mean, I saw your solitude. That part of you that makes you alone in a crowd. I can pick up that sort of thing at ten paces because I'm an island too. And I thought that maybe two islands together might be less isolated."_

_He took a deep breath, his white forehead still wrinkled in perplexity. "I do not understand you, Sol."_

_"You don't have to," she laughed. _

_But she knew it wasn't that simple. Not for him. He was like her, a curious, inquisitive creature who wanted things to make sense. He would not be satisfied with an unsolved mystery, and he would not be happy until he had taken her apart like an unfamiliar piece of machinery and catalogued all the individual parts of her soul. If she was lucky he wouldn't get bored halfway through. If she was very lucky he might even put her back together again afterwards. _

_"What time is it?" _

_She blinked her way out of her rather crazy thought process, and remembered looking at the clock by her bedside when the sounds of his disturbed sleep had woken her. _

_"It must be about three a.m. by now," she replied. _

He put a hand up to his forehead. To give him credit, his fingers barely shook. "You should sleep."

"I'm awake now," she said, shrugging.

"I woke you." He was obviously mortified.

"Don't worry about it."

"I will worry about it! If you are tired you will be unable to pilot this craft properly. We will be captured."

"And there I thought you actually cared about me being tired. I should have known better." She was joking, but he took it seriously, a tiny flicker of hurt showing in his eyes.

"Yes, you should not expect anything more from a monster."

She grabbed his hands. He flinched violently, stammering, "Wh-what?"

"Would you like to tell me why it is that every time I make a joke that could by any chance be taken the wrong way, your sense of humour disappears without a trace? I know you've got a sense of humour. It's a rotten one, rather like undertakers' and pathologists', but it's there alright normally. Why do you always take everything I say so seriously when it could be construed as a criticism? I would never say anything like that to you."

His narrow, sculpted mouth twisted up into a wry half-smile. "Yet you insult me frequently."

"Insult you, yes. Swear at you, sometimes. You're infuriating! But I'd never say anything really meant to hurt."

The look on his face opened a crack in her heart that hurt like hell. It was a look of pathetic uncertainty, wary appraisal, and disbelief. Nobody as tall and beautiful and commanding and intelligent as he was should ever look like that. She squeezed his hands tightly.

"I promise I'm telling the truth, Loki. Remember what I said. Look beyond what you think you are."

He wrenched his hands away from her, snorting a mirthless laugh. "How can I? How can I, when it blackens my entire horizon?"

She stood up abruptly. There was no point in arguing with him; they would both end up angry, and she had no desire to start a blazing row at three in the morning, so instead she swallowed her exasperation and said quietly, "My dad used to say that disturbed nights need settling with a hot drink. I'll go and make something."

She didn't give him a chance to refuse, bolting out of the door before he could say anything at all.

She made her way to the galley, thinking thoughts of hot chocolate and biscuits, but unsure as to whether she would find them. The stores, though well-stocked, were somewhat eclectic in their choice of supplies. Boxed orange juice sat next to tins of caviar, bottles of Laurent-Perrier on a small rack in a cupboard next to about a six-month supply of Ritz cheese crackers… the likelihood of her actually finding what she wanted was quite slim.

She pulled the light-cord in the galley and set about rummaging. At the very back of the cupboard she unearthed a minuscule tub of drinking chocolate, and with a little whoop of triumph she went to boil some water.

Six and a half minutes later, she was shoving a mug of steaming chocolate into Loki's hands. He assessed it with caution. "What is this?"

"Hot chocolate."

"You drink melted chocolate?" He sounded disgusted.

"No, no, it's just a drink that's got chocolate in it. It comes as a powder and you stir hot water into it. Try it. It's very… comforting. My dad always used to give me hot chocolate when I had a bad night."

"You used to suffer from nightmares?" This seemed to surprise him.

"Yes. Terribly. I used to wake up screaming on regular occasions."

"Do you still have this problem?"

She shook her head, warming her hands on her mug. "Not really. Very, very rarely, if I'm totally stressed or upset about something, I'll have a bad one. But I could probably count on one hand the nightmares I've had in the last two years."

"What are they about?"

"Usually, they're about losing people I love. Sometimes I killed them, sometimes the murderer is after me as well. It just depends. Once or twice I dreamt I was drowning in an ocean swarming with sharks. That was a particularly terrifying one."

He was gazing into his hot chocolate. Sol took a sip of hers, burnt her tongue, and said, "What was yours about?"

His eyes snapped up to hers. "I would rather not discuss it."

She recoiled from his harsh tone, slightly hurt. "Oh. Ok."

He sighed. "Forgive me. I suppose it's unfair for me to quiz you on your dreams and then refuse to share anything of mine. I dreamt that I was dying. I wanted to die. I had lost everything I cared about. But I could not die because my power was healing me. I was covered in blood, in absolute agony, and there was no reason for me to live, but I lived."

Sol shivered, and took another sip to fortify herself, not caring that it was still like a furnace. "No wonder you were disturbed! I'm sorry. Dreams can feel so real, and are often difficult to get out of your head… but it was just a dream, Loki, don't attach too much significance to it. That's what I had to remember about mine. However vivid and awful they were, they were not real. Just dreams."

"Just dreams," echoed Loki, but his voice sounded oddly hollow.

"I should leave you to settle," said Sol after a moment. "Don't forget to drink your chocolate."

He managed something that was nearly a smile. "Sol… thank you."

"You're welcome. Goodnight, Loki. I hope you sleep well from now on."

An hour later, she crept back into his berth to check on him, and found him fast asleep, hugging one of his errant pillows, with a half empty mug of chocolate on the shelf beside his bed.


End file.
